


when i look at you (oh, and i don't know what's real)

by easystreets



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Art School Gerard Way, Awkward Flirting, Bad British Accents, Eventual Happy Ending, High School Frank, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, Vampire fangs, misfits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easystreets/pseuds/easystreets
Summary: The first time he sees the kid, Gerard's feeding quarters into the payphone like it owes him money. The kid's eyes are dark but gentle, watching him like Gerard's something special instead of a twenty-year-old having a panic attack over teenagers on the fucking bus. He leans against the bus shelter and takes another drag of his cigarette; ignores the burn of eyes on his skin. Whatever. He's a freak who can't even drive. And now he's getting visually harassed by a teenager with fucking dreads.Gerard hates the bus.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 20
Kudos: 38





	when i look at you (oh, and i don't know what's real)

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for the following: mentions of self-harm, mentions of mental illness, and drinking (if you need more detailed triggers, please feel free to ask!) thank you for reading, i sincerely hope you enjoy and that this fic is a good break from the Horrors of Real Life. may we all find bus boyfriends. title is from my bloody valentine!
> 
> edit21/02/21 for minor typos :)

The first time he sees the kid, Gerard's feeding quarters into the payphone like it owes him money, trying to get Mom or Mikey or hell, even _Grandma_ to pick him up because he hates the bus and it's three in the afternoon which is when the schools get out and teenagers flood the station and this therapy thing isn't working, and, and--

Gerard runs out. He shoves his hands in his pockets and wracks his bag for any spare change he might of missed. Cognitive behavioral therapy worksheets and his stupid tax filing for school that was due three days ago fly out and flutter away. A drawing of a snake that he was going to ink at home tumbles into the wind, because of course it's windy out because Gerard has the world's shittiest luck maybe ever.

He doesn't even try to chase after them, just sits with his open bag at his feet and chainsmokes while he waits for the bus.

"This yours?" A voice asks. He looks up and burns himself on the cherry, gasping a little as a guy hands him his crumpled and incomprehensible tax filing that he probably did wrong.

"Uh," Gerard says, like he can't read his own name printed in jet black ink. "Yeah! Thank you." He manages to say, despite being the most dysfunctional twenty-year-old to ever exist. The guy's eyes are dark but gentle, scanning over him as he shoves the paper into his backpack. He leans against the bus shelter and takes another drag of his cigarette; ignores the burn of eyes on his skin. Whatever. He's a fucking freak who can't even drive. And now he's getting visually harassed by a teenager with fucking dreads.

"You shouldn't leave your backpack open," the kid warns as the bus pulls in, predictably late, "I could have stolen your smokes. Anyone could have."

* * *

The next time it's a miserable slushy spring and the bus gets stuck. Gerard has canvasses under his arm and sunglasses bridged against his nose and the worst hangover of his life. Damn Mikey and his stupid younger-brother-without-an-ID wiles, begging Gerard to buy him stupid fruity coolers and fucking marshmallow vodka. Now the bus is spitting up snow chunks, and his skull feels like it's getting lobotomized.

He really wants a drink. Or a shotgun to blow his head off with. Gerard catches a glimpse of himself in the bus driver's giant mirror, and mimes shooting himself in the head. It's pretty fucking realistic-- he's seen a _lot_ of slasher and shooter flicks-- and he even remembers to load the magazine and recoil a little when the imaginary bullet collides with his head.

Someone smirks below him, in the front where mothers with giant strollers and old people who bitch at the driver sit. No, Gerard thinks, it isn't the kid who saved his ass with those FASFA filings and then kinda-threatened to rob him. Fuck, he thinks. He was sort of hoping nobody saw that. He cringes and shakes his head and stares resolutely out the window, at the grey early morning passing by, kids skateboarding and tent cities waking up, but then his eyes catch the giant ass mirror again.

It's the kid. His hair is shaved on the sides, mohawked down the middle and his ears are fucking pierced. He grins at Gerard and wraps a giant pretend noose around his neck and pulls up, tosses his head back against the hard plastic seat like it's nothing. He looks like a total punk, the inverse of the stoner Pumpkinheads Mikey fucks around with. He probably _has_ headbanged his fair share.

He smiles at him proudly, and Gerard can't help but smirk back, shoot himself again and blast his imaginary brains on the window beside him. And his therapist said he was bad at expressing his suicidal tendencies.

* * *

  
Third time he doesn't even make it to the bus, because he eats shit and trips over his shoelaces.

"Fuck," Gerard says, and then, "no, no, wait!" when the bus pulls out of the station and leaves a cloud of black smoke in his face. Of course. It's going to be another half-hour for this route. He doesn't even bother getting up because his knees are definitely skinned and he hates the feeling of blood leaking down his legs unless it's of his own doing.

He glances up at the bus as it nearly slips through a red light, and--

The fucking kid winks at him from the back window, face contorted with laugher. Gerard flashes him the middle finger, and his knees don't hurt that bad as he's getting up. He really needs to find out this kid's name, he decides. He's on his mind too often for Gerard to be calling him kid.

* * *

The fourth time they speak. Gerard's new meds actually work, and it's finally that one week of spring where everything's done melting and you can see the green hints of grass and hear birds if you stay up late enough and encounter all sorts of hopeful shit. Gerard's mom just cut his hair and he's wearing new-to-him clothes and no jacket because it's warm-ish out. He just ate sushi for dinner and got his new trades: it's by all accounts a good day.

He doesn't expect to see the guy, because the guy seems to only appear when Gerard is on the receiving end of an embarrassing amount of misfortune. Gerard is _happy_. Gerard is smiling on the fucking bus. He even pays the full fare, he's so joyful.

"Hi," the guy says, sidling in next to him when the bus stops at the Catholic high school Mom always threatens to send Mikey to when he smokes in the house. "You got the new Batman?"

"Yeah," Gerard breathes out, closing it so the guy doesn't think he's an asshole. Also because he gets bus sick easily. The bus smells like spring air and plastic and sunlight. "Um, I don't know if this is weird or you have a twin or something, but I swear I've seen you before. Like, on the bus? And I was just--"

"I still have your snake drawing," the kid blurts sheepishly. "Do you do tattoos? I looked up your name in the directory, it was on the page and shit, but um, there were no Gerards or anything but it's just really cool. I wanna get it inked on me for my 18th." The kid stares down at the blank stretch of skin on his arm, like he's already planned it out.

Holy shit, Gerard thinks, because the kid is a kid, barely eighteen but his shit is infinitely more together than Gerard's. And then _holy shit_ passes through his mind again because someone liked his lazy sketch enough to not only just keep it but want it permanently tattooed on his skin.

"I--" Gerard coughs. "I'm scared of needles."

"Oh," the kid says, slightly fallen, his voice smoker-rough. "I get that. It's still super sick, though." He slides his earbuds in and Gerard can faintly hear something loud and dissonant leaking out from the Discman. He leans back against the seat and tries to process everything and not weird out his Catholic school going punk bus buddy. Well, they are kind of friends, he supposes: they talk and he treats Gerard like a person, which is more than could have been said for the assholes in high school. The only thing is... Gerard doesn't know his name. And it's not like he can ask for it, because what the hell are they going to do? Shake hands and trade business cards?

He brainstorms a way to find out his name the entire way home. First, Gerard scans the kid's bag to see if there's like, an ID tag or something. There isn't-- there's a Misfits patch which is sick, but not relevant to his search-- and so he continues, looking at the kid to see if he looks like a name. It's weird, but some people just belong to their names, at least in Gerard's opinion. He doesn't come up with any good names, so in the end he just accepts that the kid will probably always be the kid to him.

"Bye!" Gerard yelps when it's his stop. He clumsily pulls the cord and awkwardly waits for his friend or whatever to clamber out so he can make it. "Um, see you around..?"

"Frank," the kid says, and Gerard wasn't really expecting that, if you had asked him earlier he would have ascribed the name Frank to a crotchety old man or a fucking turtle, but he whispers Frank under his breath the entire walk home, softly and gently. _Frank_. It sounds good in his mouth, light.

* * *

Mikey and Ray are with him the next time, because they wanted to see Gerard's fancy art school exhibition, but more importantly, get froyo afterward on Gerard's broke art-school dime. They're little shits and drink way too much free champagne at the exhibit and get caught up on pretending to be art critics and even though Gerard pretends to not be related to them and actually does a pretty good job at being mature and not putting on a British accent and critiquing some girl's nude portraits, he's about a second away from bursting into laughter the entire time.

"Fuck," he giggles, once they're settled onto the bus and he's sitting between the two so Mikey doesn't boing Ray's curls. "Give me a gummy bear, Mikes."

Mikey grumbles like the fructose miser he is, but he eventually hands one over to Gerard and then to Ray because Ray makes sad and sugarless eyes at him.

"Thank you," Gerard sighs. He leans his head back against the seat and feels the engine thrum. "Ray, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, Gee?" Ray says. He's tracing the geometric pattern on the seats because the bus they're on is a relic and wasn't designed to be thrown up on by drunk people like the new ones are. It's kind of nostalgic, reminds him of being a kid and taking trips into the city.

"Please don't ever do a British accent again."

"What?" Ray says. "How dare you, Ger-ahd." He shakes his head. "How dare you."

"Don't say that to my mate," Mikey frowns, all fake offended and a moment away from laughing. "You Yanks have freedom of speech. We can say what-evah we want and there's nothing you can do to stop us."

"How about this?" Gerard says, and ruffles Mikey's preened-over hair.

"Fuck you," Mikey says, still with the stupid accent, and then the three of them are tumbled over each other and laughing way too hard and way too loudly for nine o'clock on a Friday night, taking the 94 home. Gerard's cracking up so much, dirty eyeliner tears washing down his cheeks, that he doesn't even notice Frank sitting in the front row.

Frank's grinning, like he doesn't think Gerard's a total idiot despite him laughing like a drunken asshole on the bus, and when they get off at Ray's house, Frank gives him a little shy wave. He's in his school uniform and his hair is combed out and he actually looks like the type of boy you could bring home to your mom. He's kind of... cute, Gerard realizes. He hurriedly flutters his hand at Frank like he's having some sort of spasm, and then shepherds his drunkards off the bus without any of them tripping or getting stuck on it, which considering their track record is excellent. He is such an adult.

"Who was that?" Mikey says, finally dropping the accent. Thank God; Gerard supports Mikey in most of his endeavors but accents definitely aren't his strong suit.

"No one," Gerard says, but he's blushing and replaying Frank's shy smile in his head. "Just a friend," he protests, when Ray raises his eyebrows at him, all Gerard's-gotta-crush. Frank definitely isn't nobody.

* * *

He doesn't see Frank for a while after that. Part of him worries that Frank got ran over by a bus or worse, pushed in front of one. He scans the morning crowds and whenever the bus lulls by the Catholic school, Saint something, Gerard's heart skips a beat and he automatically moves over in his seat to make room, even though it's usually just a middle-schooler or an old lady with a walker.

"Hi," Frank says one uneventful afternoon, "can I sit here?"

"Sure! Totally!" Gerard says. Frank looks tired, kind of exhausted, but there's still that jumpy-livewire energy in his eyes. "Haven't seen you around lately," he says and then immediately regrets because that's creepy. "Not in a stalker way," he amends. "Just-- I thought you got too good for the bus."

"Never," Frank smiles, his eyes bright in the afternoon sun. "I just, um, get sick a lot and then my mom freaks about the germs on public transport so sometimes she drives me." He looks down at his unlaced sneakers. "She can't anymore, though, her asshole boss got mad at her for being ten minutes late."

"Oh," Gerard says. "That's good--" he cringes, wills himself to learn how to speak like a normal human being. "Not the you-getting-sick part, or the shitty boss part, um, but that you're here. It's nice having someone to talk to and you're like, good company, so."

"Ditto," Frank says. "The bus sucks if you don't have anyone to talk to. Especially since the assholes from my school..." he rubs at his arm, all quiet for a moment. "People suck a lot, y'know?"

"Definitely," Gerard says. "But I mean there's good. You just have to look for it and remember it and make sure you pass it on." He blushes, because it kind of sounds like something you'd read on a poster at a therapist's office. But it is true, and he does believe in good, even if Frank looks sort of skeptical. "Like, name one good thing that happened to you today, and think about it, and hold onto it."

"Um," Frank says. "Seeing you? Like, when I was in the hospital to get CTs and shit for my lungs and these stupid saline injections, I would watch the bus go past, because you can kind of see this route depending where your room is, and I ended up memorizing the schedule because there's jackshit to do in the hospital, it's too loud to read and you can't play guitar or people bitch. And anyways, I would always wonder if you made the 5:13 94 on time, or if you were like, running with your coffee and your art shit and stuff for the bus." He does a hilarious rendition of Gerard's running, complete with invisible, spilling over coffee mug. "So at 5:13 every day, I would be up in my stupid gown staring at the window, watching the tiny little bus move through the streets and at your stop. And that was kinda good, I guess."

"I don't run like that!" Gerard protests. Frank's fucking sweet, he thinks. Part of him wants to bring him home but he's a high schooler and Gerard's a university student and his room is a fucking mess. "Even if I did, it's because my "art shit" is expensive," he elbows Frank and doesn't move his arm. Frank's cold and wearing a jean jacket and two hoodies. Gerard wants him to be warm forever. "So is coffee, and it spills everywhere if you don't hold it carefully." Gerard says, like, _duh_ , because everyone knows coffee is the most viscous liquid ever.

"So draw on your arms or something," Frank says. "Skin is free, and you drew that snake on looseleaf. I have it on my wall, you spilled coffee on it too."

"Give me your arm," Gerard says. "I'll give you your very first tattoo, as a thanks for being a patron of the arts."

"With a Bic," Frank says, eyeing his pen. "I only pinned it to the wall, Gerard."

"With a Bic," Gerard repeats. The bus is shaky and he only has fifteen minutes, but he utilizes them well. He doesn't want to copy the snake, so he does a dragon instead, and then a vampire girl sitting on top, smoking. It's actually not terrible; there's some shoddy linework in there from when they went over potholes, and he wishes he had colour, but Frank loves it, grabs his arm and squeals like a child or something when Gerard finally lets him see, and Gerard's heart feels fucking warm. Frank rolls up his sleeve and waves goodbye at Gerard until he's smaller and smaller in the distance, a tiny fleck of boy and ink.

* * *

He has another depressive episode, or whatever the therapist calls them. That's another thing: the stupid therapist, two times a week instead of one now. His head hurts from the new meds and his arms sting because of course he did something stupid and spent a week sitting in the paper-white ward of the hospital and now he's on a Plan To Recovery and there's a DBT skills group he's supposed to go to and his mom worries and Mikey calls him a ridiculous amount of times, even for the two of them, like he just wants to know Gerard's breathing. He can't look his fucking grandma in the eyes.

So he doesn't take the bus for a few weeks. Mikey has his license and somehow works out a deal with his homeroom teacher and Mom to skip first and drive Gerard every morning, My Bloody Valentine blasting from the CD player and burning his skin as they coast past the bus stop, Gerard's eyes cringed shut, feeling nothing, being nothing.

* * *

Two weeks later he finally goes on the bus again. It's embarrassing and Frank probably thinks he's a jerk or a weirdo or he'll just be able to tell that there is something deeply flawed with Gerard by the look on his face. He spends the entire drive to Frank's stop sketching him, mostly so his fingernails don't dig into his hands and his breathing doesn't get all panicky. He draws Frank with a snake tattoo; Frank in his school uniform bumming a cigarette off a loose drawing of Gerard (he doesn't like drawing himself, okay, it's like jerking off when you could be having sex); Frank doing this, Frank doing that, soft eyes and warm skin and dark hair.

"Gerard!" Frank says when he hops onto the bus; flashing his pass at the driver. "What's that?"

Gerard tries to slam the sketchbook shut but his brain is fucking foggy from whatever the doctor put him on and he's in withdrawal from his old ones and okay, maybe he likes the way Frank's face lifts up when he sees it, and so what?

"Oh man," Frank says, and then he's hugging him. "These are fucking great; nobody's ever drawn me before." He pores through them and traces the pen lines and blurs the pencil with his finger.

"Thanks," Gerard says, and hugs him back tight. "You have a nice face to draw. Good proportions," he adds, catching himself. "You're very dynamic, you move around a lot."

"Thank you," Frank says earnestly, and then lets go and leans on Gerard's shoulder like it's nothing. "Still a no on that tattoo?"

"When you're eighteen," Gerard says, "we'll talk."

"What are you, my mom?" Frank elbows him in his arm, where he did or tried to do the stupid thing, and it stings and he sucks in a sharp breath and hopes Frank doesn't notice. He fluffs his hair and plays with the strings on Frank's hoodie instead; asks about his day and ignores the searing pain.

* * *

On Halloween, Frank comes with frosting-red cheeks and white fangs clacking with spit in his mouth.

"Ith's my birfthday," he says. "Can we talk now?"

"Your birthday's on Halloween?" Gerard says after deciphering whatever the fuck he said. The fangs are admittedly cute. "And you didn't tell me? I would have made you a card."

"I jush want a tattoo," Frank says. He rubs at his eye and smudges black down his pale cheeks.

"You're fucking crazy, Frankie," Gerard replies. "Let me fix your makeup," he says, and leans in close to Frank so he can repair his eyeliner and darken the circles under his eyes.

"Beauthiful?" Frank says, once Gerard's done smudging something with his index. Really, he just likes touching Frank.

"Beautiful," Gerard agrees. "Happy birthday, Frankie!" It's a bit too loud but the way Frank looks at him, all fake-red teeth and darkened eyes is just. Gerard doesn't think he'll ever be able to get that out of his head. He doesn't want to. He'd have it be Halloween all year if he could.

* * *

He takes the bus into New York, searches for good heavy slabs of cardstock and new ink for his Japanese pens that he only uses on special occasions. Frank deserves a special occasion, Gerard thinks, brushing eraser dust onto the bus floor, chewing the hem of a cigarette between his teeth. He does most of the card at home, hunched over his desk, his mom's sewing scissors she uses to trim customer's dead ends pinced between his hands. There's a watercolour set spilling midnight sun and peeled orange morning onto his t-shirt, and the TV's blasting late night MTV where the songs are a minefield of suck and greatness.

The art is the easy part, minus the paper surgery that he has to do. The words are difficult. He erases and erases until he's worried the paper'll wear thin. His pen is sweaty in his hand as he writes,

_Dear Frankie,_

_I've had a great time riding the bus with you :) but it'd be greater if I saw you off of it, too! We should totally get fries or something vegetarian you can eat sometime. Or watch scary movies at my house or whatever you want. Thank you for being the good in my day. Happy birthday, and before you ask I'm still thinking on the tattoo._

_Xo Gerard_

* * *

Monday, he doesn't show. Tuesday and Wednesday Gerard doesn't see him and Thursday he loses hope. He mopes around the bus station, chainsmokes his heart out. He really hopes Frank isn't in the hospital, hopes Frank's on vacation in Florida or something and that's why he isn't on the bus. He hopes Frank didn't realize how horrible and fucked up he can be; knows deep in his heart it would be good if he did. The card sits in the front pocket of his bag. He carries it like a war wound.

* * *

He's smoking Viceroys over a sewer grate when some guy pulls up aside him.

"I don't have directions," Gerard says, like Mikey's trained him to do, because he's too nice and would be an excellent target for any robber or pocket-picker. "Um, there's a map at the next station over, just follow 140th and you should-- Frank?"

"Got my permit," Frank says. The car's nice-- beige but the inside is Frankified: there's a hard metal CD blasting and a sticker on the back of Glenn Danzig. "It's my mom's car."

"Your mom likes the Misfits?" Gerard says, and then, "You asshole, I missed you."

Frank frowns. "Sorry!" He unlocks the door and motions for Gerard to come in. "There was an element of surprise to the whole thing."

"Really." Gerard says. Frank moves to put his hand on the gear shift but it stutters and then suddenly it's on his leg, hot and warm and his nails are fucking painted. 

"Yeah," Frank grins. "I was gonna get my license and come and rescue you from the horrors of public transit." He grins down at his hand. "It took a few tries, I like going fast."

"I made you a card," Gerard blurts. "Um. For your birthday, it's not a big thing or anything." Frank's hand doesn't move and Gerard hopes it never does. He leans and fishes it out of his backpack and Frank's hand brushes against his stomach. He could die happy in Frank's Mom's Honda, he thinks.

Frank rips the envelope off-- moves his hand, which sucks-- but he's near-surgical when he opens and reads the card. The front has a circular cut-out, behind the silhouette of two boys sitting side by side on the bus, sharing earbuds that are connected to a Discman. If you pull a tab, you can rotate the sky: change it from a watery winter snowfall to bright red summer sun to grey fall, over and over again. Frank reads it slowly and then he clutches it to his heart and shakes his head.

"It's not--" Gerard says. "I'm sorry if it--"

"Sorry?" Frank says, and he sounds fucking choked up. "Gerard, nobody's ever given me a card like this before, this is the nicest shit anyone's ever done for me. You're--" Frank laughs blithely. "You're fucking crazy." He hugs him tight with wet eyes and then they're kissing, making out sloppily with Frank's foot on the brake and one hand holding the card in the air so it doesn't get squished. "Been meaning to do that for a while,"

"I really like you," Gerard breathes. 

"Yeah," Frank says, smiling. "Me too." 

They drive aimlessly; Gerard holds the door open and sits sideways as Frank pumps gas and they linger in Gerard's driveway for an hour, talking and brushing hands and burning dinosaur bones like nothing but matters but them in the fogged up car. It feels that way at least; he could get lost in Frank forever. When he gets home, he fishes his bus ticket out of his pocket and replaces the framed photo of his high school grad pic with it. It'll be the last one he'll ever buy; he's never taking the bus again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please comment! This story is incredibly personal to me, in that I once upon a time had a bus boyfriend. Please tell me your stories of bus love in the comments if you wish as well, because I fuckin' love public transportation.
> 
> edit: just wanted to say thanks again for the comments! I really appreciate them. :)


End file.
